


What the Dressing Gown Saw

by TheRimmerConnection



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Genre: Disturbing information about your clothes, Gown POV, Gowncest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-12
Updated: 2006-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRimmerConnection/pseuds/TheRimmerConnection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know about mattresses and ratchet screwdrivers, but of course, sentient dressing gowns experience an awful lot. Arthur's tells its tale. Unaware gowncest, FordArthur and pyjamacest ensues. Not for those afraid of what their clothes might know about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Dressing Gowns

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not my Ford (sob), not my Arthur (wail), not even really my Dressing Gown (ehem), as I am certain Douglas must have known about their animate nature. Just carrying out investigations on their behalf.
> 
> I apologise if this makes you look askance at your own personal dressing gown.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of Dressing Gowns:  
  
 _It is a well-known fact that in an infinitely large universe, nearly everything you can think of is grown, or lives, somewhere. In the case of dressing gowns, they are formed in pods growing regularly up the side of a thick central stem, like a sort of brassica on the moon of Gelhartny, just outside the Horse Head nebula. When these pods split, the small gowns, with their trailing sensory braid, fall to the floor and lie in the sunshine to dry out and swell. As they dry, not only do they grow in size, but the local conditions determine their adult patterning. Thus, a gown that hatches into full sunlight or total blackness will be a pale or dark shade of a single colour, while one born to dappled shade may develop a checked or striped pattern, or in the deepest regions of the forest, an opulent paisley. The braid colouration is governed by genetic factors, as is pocket placement, hoodage and cloth hanging-loop presence or absence._  
  
 _Dressing gowns are usually gathered in the autumn, when they are fully developed, and may live for many years, even with neglect and disuse. They become very attached to their owners, for whom they have the greatest respect and most servile attitude, and give off strong telepathic waves to disillusion any prospective second-hand buyers._  
  
 _Dressing gowns are highly tactile beings. They have no sense of sight, taste or smell (thankfully), but make up for this with quite astonishing powers of hearing and a limited sixth sense amounting to strong empathy or low-level mind reading. They are extremely sensitive and respond well to stimuli encountered by their owners. They can communicate easily with each other, though on a level that most sentient beings do not notice. The best translators are pyjamas, many of whom are dead long before they are ever worn._  
  
For this reason, first-hand accounts of life as a dressing gown are rare, but this one was recorded through a pair of striped pyjamas recently picked up on an extremely dull day at a space port, and hung on a hook on the wall of a bedroom on the Heart of Gold, near to where a dressing gown lay.  
  
'I have had an eventful past few months. I had, until recently, been used to a regular and uneventful existence. Every morning I would be pulled on by my owner, taken downstairs, wrapped comfortably round his still-warm body, and cosily sat on while he ate his breakfast, perhaps receiving a few drops of tea, a small splatter of egg-yolk or butter, which he would hastily brush off, tutting to himself in a most endearing way. Then back upstairs, where I could relax for the day while He went out, before, after his evening cup of tea, I was often called into service once more, to sit round him while he read or watched television or bemoaned the lack of company to his houseplants. Very occasionally we entertained together. I often had the sense that He was not entirely happy on these occasions, and I felt that I was allowed to remain in order to show the unexpected guest (always the same one), that my owner was not in the mood to entertain.  
  
'Then, a short time ago, we had a sudden and peculiar break from our routine. I was put on as usual, first thing, but instead of our leisurely breakfast and a pleasant day on the peg, I was whisked outside into the open air and lain on, on my back in the mud. I do not mind the mud, I have no qualms about being a little stained, after all, it shows that one is well used and not neglected, however, after that, the day just got stranger. Within hours, we were off again, to another place I had never thought to enter: the local pub; this time in the company of that long-standing friend, the Unexpected Guest.  
  
'I was surprised to hear from the friend that the planet Earth, on which I had been staying, was about to be destroyed. However, my owner outdid me in the surprise stakes and within minutes, having jumped around wailing at what I understood to be other humans, we were once again on our backs, this time in a hedgerow. I started to strike up a conversation with some teasels, who were attempting to ingratiate themselves into my pile, but before we had got past the introductions, my owner and I were whisked up to a spaceship by a matter transfer beam with our friend, and unfortunately, in our hasty departure, the teasels were left behind.  
  
'After some extremely unpleasant time spent on the ship, which turned out to belong to Vogons, who did in fact subject us to a poetry reading that nearly brought me out in bobbles, we three were ejected forcibly into space, a place where I am fairly comfortable, but where I know full well many sentient beings do not survive for long. I was therefore glad, being worried for my owner, when we were picked up by another ship. This was a much more friendly and cosy ship, such as a dressing gown might feel at home in. At this point, I actually began to feel shamefully smug because, knowing my owner as I do, I knew he was unlikely to take me off while there were none of His other clothes around and while He was feeling so vulnerable. As there is nothing in life that gives me more pleasure than clinging snugly to His body, the prospect of uninterrupted periods of being on His person was heaven.  
  
'And so we come to tonight, to where I am now. I am wrapped around my favourite owner, we have both had a wash, so He's smelling good and so am I, and, what is more, my pile is lovely and fluffy and there are no sharp crackly patches of dried sauce anywhere about me.  
  
'I understand that we are in his bedroom on this spaceship. I would love to be able to tell you what that meant in terms of décor, tidiness and so on, but I can only tell you that there is a hook somewhere on one of the walls where he likes to hang me when he goes to bed, next to his towel; and there is also a chair that I sometimes use when he's in more of a hurry. This chair is smooth and curved, so that I very often end up on the floor – a thing that rarely happened at home, He is rather fastidious about things like that, or He was. Something has happened recently, which has meant me spending more and more time on the floor, and less and less time hanging neatly on my hook.  
  
'I cannot say whether He has truly fallen in love. From what I hear, he has, but then, I only get to hear what he says, I don't get to see him making eyes, or sidling up to anyone, or any of those things. However, I would say, in general, when a man lies on his bed and moans someone's name while rubbing bobbles onto my sleeve-pile along the side of my conveniently placed left-side patch pocket, then has to rinse my hem in the sink; then he can be considered to be in love with that person.  
  
'Of course, it is not these individual pursuits that leave me lying on the floor. No; after such an evening, I can expect to be hung neatly, by my slightly fraying cloth loop, on the hook. Tonight, I suspect, I shall be sleeping on the floor.'


	2. While my pyjamas gently weep

'About thirty seconds ago, I heard the door open and my owner sat up very fast. We had been lying on the bed, on our side, His arms wrapped comfortingly around me. He was muttering to himself, something about tea I think, when we heard a soft sigh of pleasure and footsteps coming into the room. The sigh was almost definitely from the door. I hear them as we go round the ship, it is my only way of knowing when we pass from one room to another, except when we come into the bedroom, which He keeps quite cool, presumably so that he can keep me on all the time.  
  
'The footsteps did not belong to the door. I understand that doors do not have feet. They belonged to His friend, a man I hold in the greatest esteem, for unlike some, he does not manhandle me, rip me from my owner's body, stuff me under the bed, or any other of a hundred humiliations I, or other dressing gowns I have known, have suffered at the hands of non-owners. It is true, however, that this is the man who originally purchased me and gave me to my owner, thus (I now know) making me one of the few live dressing gowns on Earth, and this perhaps gives him a little more respect for me. (I tried to find out about my owner from his outgoing gown, but unfortunately, it had long since died, or, shockingly, had never been alive at all, and had been but a woven facsimile of my kind).  
  
'I can hear that he is still standing near us. After his initial movement, my owner has done nothing. I think I can comprehend this: there was a row earlier. He felt that his friend was being rather thoughtless and unsympathetic in the way he was talking about our destroyed planet of Earth. His friend did nothing to attempt to correct himself at the time, so He was left unsatisfied and quite upset. This, no doubt, is why we have been lying so still and cosy, and why the two of them now remain silent and unmoving.  
  
'I can feel a touch upon my sleeve, a gentle caress ruffling my pile. A shiver runs up and down my warp threads. My owner jerks away. (No, please let him continue, please…). The touch is back, ah good, he is determined, he is going to speak.'  
  
"Arthur?"  
  
"Grrnumph!" 'That is my owner, that articulate grunt. I know he can do better than that. But there is an arm snaking round about my sleeve and the warm body of our friend is beside us, the fabric of his trousers is exchanging little pulls with my fibres. I am trapped between their arms now and it is magical.'  
  
"Arthur. You'd be much better off talking to me."  
  
'He has such an endearing tone, doesn't he? This friend of ours. He isn't very good at apologies. I know from listening to him that my owner would have liked one for him turning up drunk all the time back on Earth, but he never could see that anything might have upset Him. It's not even thoughtlessness really, just an alien perspective.  
  
'Now He is starting to soften – it's amazing what a bit of a hug can achieve. I can feel His hips relaxing down towards his friend's, so that they are now sitting thigh to thigh on the bed, my sleeve still wrapped between the pair of them.  
  
'Wait, the pressure has gone, our friend has withdrawn his arm and left the bed (Zarking fa…). Oh, no, he hasn't gone. Now a fold of my hem is trapped under each of his knees on either side of His legs and He is lying back on me. There is nothing tonight between me and Him, no pyjama top, no vest; just his soft flesh into which I sink in ecstasy. He has a mole near the centre of his back and I can wrap my individual fibres around it if I am careful. He doesn't like it, he says it stings when he takes me off, but it gives me pleasure, so that's what I'm doing now.  
  
'Even as I am attempting this delicate move, Hands are running over my breast pockets. Ooooh, a frisson: our friend is tweaking my braid, what bliss! His other hand is playing with the inner edge of my lapel, his knuckles brushing His skin beneath me, his wrist brushing up and down my folded edge. I know the wear in that patch is going to be terrific if he carries on like this. I don't mind though, I am being massaged, rolled and pressed by the sensuous movements of my owner's body as this man, our friend, continues his ministrations.  
  
'My cord is being undone. I love this bit: the slide back across His flesh, His groans as my rough weave drags across his hard nipples. I wave goodbye to the pyjama bottoms; unless something goes wrong, they'll be off soon. I used to leave earlier, but I think this man respects the bond between myself and my owner, so I am sometimes allowed to stay the whole time, as long as I don't get in the way.  
  
'Oh…wait, no, I think we've hit a snag. That stubborn streak I so admire in my owner, listen:'  
  
"Ford, I don't want to. You've upset me, and I don't really want to anyway. You see, I'm still not really happy with the idea, with you being a man and so on, and I thought maybe it would be nice if for once we could just talk and, well, I know it might be a strange concept for you, having seen how, erm, easily excitable you are on a regular basis, but I don't like to be constantly on the watch for you. I'm not that sort of man. You go on and on about girls, and then you come running to me when there is a perfectly good female on board, not that I would be at all happy about you trying to seduce her. Zaphod is bad enough competition. Okay, I know I'm your friend, but I have never considered that that means I have to sleep with you. Just because my planet was destroyed it doesn't mean that…"  
  
'He's been cut off. By the closeness of the press on my breast fabric, I would say he is being kissed. Just as well. He does go on a bit when he's nervous. He needs to learn about taking breaths, shorter sentences and a bit less chat overall. The pressure is being eased, a rumbling of breath, sounds like irritation,'  
  
"Arthur, what does it matter?"  
  
"Eh?" (Articulate as ever)  
  
"I happen to be exceptionally fond of you. Okay, if Zaph wasn't around, maybe I would try for Trillian, she's a sweet girl, but if you knew Zaphod like I do, you'd know why that would be a bad idea with him here."  
  
'Our friend is running his hands softly up and down my sides, I don't think either of them have noticed, but it is sending my weave into spasm. Our friend is going on, I sincerely hope he wins my owner round quickly or I'm going to pass out. There's only so much pleasure a humble dressing gown can take.'  
  
"Arthur, be reasonable, I saved your life…uh-uh" (shushing my owner) "I know you didn't ask me to, but I did. I did it because I couldn't imagine leaving without you. Now when I expend that much energy chasing someone who seems almost pathologically opposed to rescue round the countryside while he moans on about unimportant things, I'm usually hoping for some return. I don't think it's selfish. What you seem to forget is that you do actually enjoy it. I can't measure up to your particular set of Earth standards all the time, because even after fifteen years, I still can't remember them all and I am now doing my best to forget them. Be friendly and let's have a fun evening together."  
  
"The fact remains, Ford, that you are a man."  
  
"You're stating the zarking obvious again Arthur. Except that you're missing something even more obvious: I'm an alien, I'm not human. I'd have thought that having got past that little hurdle, which, I might add, a lot of life-forms never do, the gender issue would be a minor point. What's the difference? You're not on Earth now pal. Three-quarters of the galaxy doesn't even recognise the distinction. So be nice and get your zarking kit off." (That's the spirit, you tell Him dear fellow.) 'Has he won? I ache to know…'  
  
"I'm not taking my gown off." (May the blessings of Holy Zarquon be upon you, my owner, but don't put him off now.) He sounds terribly petulant again, let's hope he hasn't ruined things. "I am in need of comfort, and since there's no tea…" 'I think he might be pushing his luck now – how much more comfort can a man get?'  
  
"Alright, alright. Keep the gown on, can we lose the rest? Please?" 'Our friend sounds quite exasperated, but at least I shall be in attendance.'  
  
"Mmnmf." 'Ah, we're back to the height of our expressive powers again, I hear. It's hardly surprising though – his pyjama bottoms are indeed leaving the scene. I can hear them sobbing gently, they never get to stay, it's very hard on them. They trail past my bottom hem, clinging feebly to my fraying strands of piping as my owner arches and wriggles to let them go, sending further shock waves up and down my fibres. Now I am being pressed even harder, the full length of our friend is lying on top of us, his weight barely lifted by his elbows pinning my shoulders to the bed. He is smiling at my owner. I know this in a way I do not fully understand. In the normal way of things, I cannot know when a person is smiling, although I may catch an air of their emotions if they are close by. When our friend smiles however, it is a clear as the beating of my owner's heart. I feel it as a sensation of elation that threatens to burst my fibres; yet it is always coupled with the strangest premonition that I am about to be eaten; although this has never, as yet, come to pass.  
  
'The smile has taken effect, my sleeves have been raised and they brush in quick little jumps down the front of our friend, then part to rub down his arms as his shirt trails its way across me to the floor to join the pyjamas. Are we to do trousers now?  
  
'No. We have been waylaid. I can feel emotions building in my owner, the sort of desperate emotions that cry for release and forbid rationality. His heart rate has increased significantly and a gentle sweat is settling into my weave. I fear I shall be soaked tonight. My sleeves are up around our friend's back, rubbing and bumping against each other, a grumble is coming…wait for it…'  
  
"Arthur, that wool is really scratchy, you know?" (Told you!).  
  
"Tough. You started this…" 'My owner mumbles, almost incoherently; it sounds as if he has a mouthful of skin.'  
  
'Ah, here we go. His arm is moving, my sleeve trapped between the two of them, while his arm muscles ripple in a familiar action. A few seconds, a few muttered curses, and our friend's trousers are heading for the weeping laundry pile (They are so wracked with sobs as they leave, that the descent gives them hiccups and it is all I can hear over the muffles moans and sighs of my two companions).  
  
'Now all I feel is skin. There is skin in me, around me, on me. The very thought makes my double-thickness cuffs roll themselves back over my sleeves. My left sleeve is running over our friend's back again, despite his protests, pulling him tightly in to my owner, but my right sleeve is between them again, squashed flat between slickening, writhing flesh. Our friend's hands are roaming again. He is stroking the back of my collar while my owner moans softly. His other hand is delving between me and my owner, rubbing my pile away from His skin and exploring the texture I have left there. I can feel my senses starting to heighten in line with those of my owner: between us, we now have barely enough sense to converse with a pillow case. What is more, the waves of feeling and urgency I am receiving so clearly from our Betelgeusian blanket, only serve to enhance my joy, so I squirm with pleasure beneath them and neither of them notice, they are too caught up in themselves.  
  
'The front panels of my skirts have fallen to the sides with the rising of my owner's knees. I can feel points of extreme pressure on them as the closeness is lost higher up on my breast pocket. There are mutterings and gentle croonings to be heard, but I can barely listen, let alone comprehend. My owners hips are moving, my pile just below my waistband is being flattened, first this way, now that as he moves. There are hands clutching my lapels, pulling so hard that I know, if I were not carried away with the ecstasy of it all, I would be in pain. The movements are increasing in speed, and now I can hear, at last I can hear. My owner is panting, and our pleasure is so intense that my cord is breaking its binding at one end. As He shrieks, screaming our loving friend's name out high over the wailing of the fallen clothing, my cord springs with wild abandon from its restraints, exploding itself with exuberant elasticity into three wavy strands of burgundy, brown and cream. Our friend collapses upon me, that smile back on his face as he snuggles it into my left-front panel, and in the interests of self-preservation, I decide to pass out for a while.'  
  
'I come to in certain knowledge of being exceptionally happy. I discover why this is so as I become more aware of myself. I am still on my owner, he lies flat down the whole of my length, but my front panels do not touch him. I pride myself that, whilst I am a superb fit for my owner, I am also of a high quality and generous cut. When he wears me, my front panels overlap substantially. I am therefore exactly the sort of dressing gown you might choose if you wished to accommodate a second person in there with you. I am therefore thrilled to find that this happy accident of quality control has been seized by my owner and his friend and I now encompass the pair of them, warm comfortable feelings emanating from their minds, while dampness seeps into my lower hem and sweat renders me almost insensible.  
'Tomorrow, Zarquon willing, I shall visit the laundry. However, I have been with my owner a while and I realise that the shifty and embarrassed mood I imagine he will be in tomorrow may preclude such a jaunt. I'll not think about it now, but lie still and envelop them. They are nearly asleep, but they will still have the last word I fear, in mumbling, contented tones:'  
  
"Arthur…?"  
  
"Mrrgh?"  
  
"How…can you…sleep in such (yawn)… scratchy wool?"  
  
"Gnniphhh"  
  
(At this point, the evening's commentary suddenly ended as the gown was removed in the blink of an eye and replaced by the much softer, more sleep-friendly quilt. Unfortunately, it fell to the other side of the bed, so the pyjama top, which had been recording the report, was unable to ask it to illuminate any of the more obscure points. Gaps in the narrative are therefore consequences of the normal actions of sentient beings in a normally probable universe, and not faults attributable to the gown, the pyjamas, the shirt, trousers or humanoid life-forms, or indeed any being present at the time. Complaints regarding the lack of graphic detail should be directed to Arthur's underpants, which being blessed with the sense of sight (and precious little else), could easily have filled the pyjamas in with the extra information from their excellent vantage point on the chair. Don't mind the slippers, they're all slightly daffy anyway.)  
(And the pillows are no better…)


	3. The 'L' Word

'You are aware, I know, that all you read here is conveyed to you via my owner's pyjamas, which are the only translators of which I know. Cognisant of the fact that I am expected to continue my commentary, I was a little worried first thing this morning when, being pulled on reluctantly by my owner (to the accompaniment of a number of 'eughs' and 'eurghs' caused by the general crispy dirtiness of my fabric), the pyjamas, which He had already pulled on, refused to speak to me. Some careful coaxing and a number of promises I hope to be able to keep, have brought me back to a position of relative friendliness with these usually charming beings, and so, once again, I am able to report on the experiences of life with my owner.  
  
'We are walking along one of the corridors. I know this because my dear owner is in a very morose and dejected state of mind and is not paying attention to the mechanics of walking. We are therefore lurching about and hitting the walls on either side. The walls are giving off little sighs as we pass; some of them start to vibrate as He touches in order to attempt to massage Him into a better mood. This is not working. If anything, He is becoming more agitated and, truth be told, we are heading further and further from that trip to the laundry, both physically and mentally.  
  
'When He awoke this morning, I was aware, almost immediately, of a certain coldness emanating from Him. His friend must have picked up on the same feelings since, after an abortive 'good morning,' he sighed and left the room without trying to win my owner round. This, no doubt, is why Iseem destined to remain crispy and unclean for a good few hours more. Now we have passed through a door and, judging by the humming of equipment, we have come to the bridge. My owner has stopped very abruptly. It is as if He has seen something terrifying ahead of Him and does not want to carry on into it. I can feel waves of an emotion firing out of Him. It is…wait…it is jealousy…at least, I think it is. I find the baser emotions hard to sort one from the other at times, but I can feel Him gearing Himself up to speak.'  
  
"Ford…" 'That is a very uncertain noise my owner is making.'  
  
"What are you doing?" 'Oh dear. We have moved up to full panic-covered-by-a-veneer-of-calm mode. He is clearly extremely distressed and doing his best to hide it.'  
  
"Hello Arthur. Talking to me again, are you?" 'Our friend will labour the point.'  
  
"Wha…?" 'He is spluttering now, it is not becoming.'  
  
"Arthur, I am sitting on the bridge, having just finished an extremely pleasant liquid breakfast, and I am resting my head in the lap of my semi-cousin because he offered, and because there are no zarking headrests on these control chairs, and because Zaphod has an incredibly comfortable lap for anyone who likes a post-breakfast snooze. Which I do."  
  
"But…bu…" 'My owner's legs are making little twitching movements as if they want to run and hide. His upper body, however, appears immobile, so I suppose we are staying. I can only assume that the scene that has greeted him this morning is of a more than usually friendly nature. If the pyjamas could just let themselves slide down about four inches, perhaps the underpants could take a look-see and tell us what exactly is going on…  
  
'(Thanks chaps.) The underpants have reported in, and since I understand them better than the pyjamas do, I will relay the information. Apparently, my owner's friend is lying right back in one of the console chairs, which slide to the horizontal, his hands folded casually in his lap. He is in his shirt sleeves and his head rests far back in the depths of the two-headed gentleman's lap. Unfortunately for the sanity of my owner, said gentleman is fondling our friend's head in a cosy sort of way with both his right hands, and there is an early-morning-tentish sort of look about the crotch of his trousers. If our friend had looked a little less comfortable, or the other gentleman a little less relaxed with the situation, then all might have been well, but they look as described and it is not doing my owner any good. He has now yanked the pyjamas back up, high on his waist, and pulled the cord tight with a vicious jerk. I am rubbing his sides in a soothing manner, but he seems too vexed to pay any attention.'  
  
"What's Monkey-man blithering about?" 'Ah, that will be the other gentleman. I spoke to his jacket the other day. The poor creature is in very poor taste, but the mechanics of the tailoring involved are beyond belief.'  
  
"I don't know. 'Scuse me Zaphod, I'll go and find out, or we'll be watching him mouthing like a babel fish all morning."  
  
'A chair is creaking, footsteps come towards us, and there is a familiar hand on my arm. No, it has been quickly removed.'  
  
"Arthur, your gown is filthy." (Thank-you.) "Come to the laundry with me and tell me what's up."  
  
'He has daringly seized us by the arm once more, obviously desperate to usher my owner out of the room before the outburst I can feel building up in Him breaks the surface. The door sighs behind us: we have just made its day. My owner speaks:'  
  
"What's up?" 'Ah; full, high-pitched whine time.' "What's up? Well…" 'The whine is now leaving; forward with the special voice reserved for dealing with difficult door-to-door salesmen, traffic wardens and council-officials-trying-to-knock-His-house-down.' "Well…" 'Oh. I thought he was going to get further than that.'  
  
"Arthur, was there something back there that you didn't like?"  
  
"Oh no. No. Not at all." 'The very soul of patience.' "I don't mind coming into a room in the morning…" ('How does He get three syllables into the word 'mind'?') "…to find the person I slept with last night resting their head on another man's genitalia."  
  
"Good. Well, there's no problem then, is there?" 'Judging by his light and confident delivery, I suspect our friend has once again failed to spot the sarcasm intended by my owner, and may, as a result, be for it.'  
  
"No, Ford. I didn't mean that I didn't mind. I meant that I minded, very much. In fact, I could take it as the deepest insult, if I could summon up the energy; but without any tea, I'm finding that rather hard. You see, what you fail to understand is that…"  
  
"Arthur. What I fail to understand is: one: why you say one thing and mean the exact opposite; two: why my resting on Zaphod's lap denotes, I can only assume, infidelity, in your book; and three: why you care whether I'm faithful to you or not, considering that when we woke up this morning you weren't even interested in looking at me."  
  
'My owner is confused. Judging by the movements of His neck muscles, His face is channel-hopping through his complete range of facial expressions for unpleasant or embarrassing situations, and not finding one on which to settle. I think He's going to give up and speak again. He seems to have ended up with His eyebrows raised to their highest point without His eyelids following them, His lower jaw slack and His upper lip slanting up towards His nose on one side and towards His cheek on the other. Not particularly attractive I suppose, but it does show off His teeth, which the underpants tell me are His best feature.  
  
"I care because…what I mean to say is that…" 'He is taking a breath. He is thinking about dealing with a council-worker again – this seems to work for Him.' "Firstly, I was being sarcastic, and I would have thought you had spent long enough on Earth to come to terms with that particular little device" 'Oh, he can be so acidic!' "Secondly, I know Zaphod is related to you in some hideous way that I can't even begin to contemplate, and I know he can be terribly charming when it suits him, but I find him very hard to get on with, largely because he generally refers to me as if I am not there and he never uses my name and he…Anyway, I find it rather unbalancing to see anyone so chummy with him after a night with me. That's not to say of course that I am in any way a better person than him, I wouldn't be so coarse; but if, after all, you like me enough to do…what you did with me last night, the least you could do would be to keep your face away from intimate parts of other peoples' anatomies…" 'Our friend is hurrying us along the corridors at a breakneck speed now,'  
  
"But you don't want to have sex with me, Arthur."  
  
"Don't I?" 'He sounds genuinely surprised, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him yet. Now it has.' "No. No. I suppose I don't. But…" 'Ah. We have reached the laundry. I can hear watery noises, hurrah! I am to be washed! Oh the joy!'  
  
(That wholly remarkable book, The Hitchhiker _'s Guide to the Galaxy, includes an extended entry on the special features aboard the Heart of Gold. On the subject of on-board laundry facilities it says: There almost certainly was a better, more hi-tech method of washing clothes available to the creators of the Heart of Gold than the one on which they settled. Legend has it however, that they were feeling in a particularly nostalgic mood when they designed the laundry, and since the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation had some old-style washers they'd fitted up with GPP for a laugh during a late night at the office, it was decided that it would be a great idea to put in this one, as areminder of the harshness of existence for the over-wealthy owners of the ship. It has been suggested that the washing machines were not the SCC's best effort._ )  
  
Our friend has opened the door of one of the machines. Oh yes, it comes from the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, here it goes!'  
  
"Welcome to the laundry of the Heart of Gold. All the machines in this laundry have been especially designed to wash and process your clothes to the highest standards: undertaking the cycle most suited to your needs, providing a friendly and helpful service, and ensuring that your completed laundry is spotless, fresh, and completely satisfying in every way; leaving you, the wearer of the clothes, free to enjoy life without the fear of difficult washes. It is my pleasure to invite you to load your washing and select your load-type." 'What a friendly washing machine. It has a soothing, husky, female voice with what my owner would call an American accent. My owner is taking me off, the pull I feel is terrible. I hate to leave Him, but I know it is necessary. He has put me on the top of the washer.'  
  
"Ford, how does this thing work?" ('The last time I was washed, I was in with our friend's laundry while my owner was spending some time kicking a drinks dispenser.')  
  
"You think about your laundry and put your hand in the slot down there. It reads your brainwave patterns and selects the appropriate cycle accordingly. Only make sure you're thinking about the right clothes."  
  
"Okay…"  
  
"You have selected to wash an old woollen dressing gown with a frayed cord and a selection of unmentionable stains. Appropriate cycle selected. Door locked. Commencing cycle. Please wait. Share and Enjoy."  
  
'Wait, no! I am not in the machine! I am still sitting up on the top here…where the vibrations are quite pleasurable…but even so, I should be in there! Excuse me! Hello!… They cannot hear me…'  
  
"Wait, no! Ford! I haven't put my gown in yet. Doesn't it know that?"  
  
"Obviously not. You shouldn't have started the cycle until you were ready."  
  
"Well I didn't know. How do I stop it?"  
  
"You can't. You'll just have to do as it says and wait."  
  
"Isn't there another machine?"  
  
"No. All the rest are tumble driers, spin driers, soap powder dispensers…"  
  
"I thought the soap powder was in there already?"  
  
"It is."  
  
"Then why…?"  
  
"Appearances, Arthur. Never mind. You can carry on with whatever it was you were saying if you like. I'm not in a hurry." 'But I'm not being washed! Don't you dare distract Him and get me left here. My owner is not paying him any attention. He has placed his hand on me and waves of irritation are firing from him at the machine.'  
  
"My laundry is not in you, you stupid machine. Stop and let me put it in."  
  
"You have selected to wash an old woollen dressing gown with a frayed cord and a selection of unmentionable stains. Share and enjoy."  
  
"No! There is no laundry in you. Stop."  
  
"You have selected to wash an old woollen dressing gown with a frayed cord and a selection of unmentionable stains. Nineteen minutes remaining. Share and enjoy."  
  
"Can't you hear me? You are washing fresh air!"  
  
"I am washing an old woollen dressing gown with a frayed cord and a selection of unmentionable stains. Share and enjoy."  
  
'My owner has given up, he is bending down and resting his face on my pile. We should share intimate moments like this more often, it makes me feel very cosy. Unfortunately, I am still crispy and not very comfortable; he is rising again, but pulling me about his shoulders, not fully on, but acting as a shawl. It is quite warm in here, so I am flattered.  
  
'Our friend seems to have lost his fear of me, for his hands are on our shoulders, he is very close, I can feel the heat radiating from him.'  
  
"Arthur, what is the matter?"  
  
"You mean, apart from this wretched machine and your being utterly incomprehensible…"  
  
"I don't know. How about we pretend you didn't mind what I was doing on the bridge, which, I might add, I was doing in all innocence, and see where that gets us?"  
  
"Ford…I might be wrong, but don't you find me incredibly irritating? I mean, you give that impression a lot of the time." 'Our friend has turned away, his hands have left us."  
  
"I'm not…very good at this sort of thing."  
  
"What?" 'Confusion is coursing through my owner.  
  
"Arthur, I couldn't leave Earth without you. I am enduring the scorn and disbelief of my semi-cousin and risking losing my status as a really froody guy, just so that I can stick with you. That's where I'm coming from. You work it out."  
  
"Zaphod knows?" 'He is screeching now; I wish He wouldn't.'  
  
"Holy Zarquon, Arthur! Do you never hear the important bits?"  
  
"What about Trillian? Does she know?"  
  
"How should I know? Probably. Zaphod's not very discreet."  
  
"Ford, I didn't ask you to advertise. In fact, I distinctly remember asking you to go away at one point."  
  
"You didn't mean it."  
  
"You always seem to think I mean what I say the rest of the time…" 'He is sulking again now. Our friend's hands are back,'  
  
"Arthur. Look at me. I do not like the laundry as a social venue. I do not like it as a relaxation room. I am in the laundry purely because you are…" ('his hands have lifted for a moment.') "…because you need to be. Every time you get flustered, every time you look confused, every time you try to explain something pointless to me, I am less and less likely to leave. You have no idea what you do to me. Zaphod and I go right back. Of course we're close. Of course we play around a bit when there's nothing better happening. But right now, I want nothing more than to fill the time, while we wait for this machine to complete its hefty load of air, having boisterous sex with you." 'I think that's what you call blunt. My owner has stiffened up again, and not in the way our friend would like. We are backed up against the gently vibrating machine, that smile is back, I can feel hot prickles of anticipation running up and down my threads and the pile on the back of my collar has raised of its own accord.'  
  
"Now?" 'He is panicking. I pull myself carefully up, an inch or two further onto his shoulders to reassure Him. There is a hand at our waist, gripping firmly, I am squashed between my owner's trembling back and rumbling metal, the sensation is divine. Another hand goes around my shoulders, pulling His upper body forward, I can hear tender kisses, but He is not convinced.'  
  
"Ford, it's barely half-past nine in the morning. Even assuming I was happy with this, don't you think it's a bit early? And we're in a laundry, isn't that a bit public?"  
  
"It's never too zarking early to get friendly, if the mood takes you and the right body is in front of you. Besides, who do you think is going to come to the laundry at this time of day?"  
  
"Any…" 'Stopped by a kiss again. Our friend is very determined.' "…one might. Marvin. Trillian. I don't suppose Zaphod would stoop to doing his own laun…dry. Why now anyway? Why can't you wait? Have you no self-control?"  
  
"Zarking fardwarks! Arthur, I lo… no I haven't. I want you now, and I don't honestly think you mind, so I'm going to finish persuading you." 'Another smile, and if I'm not mistaken, he almost said it, just then, a couple of words that would have blown my owner away: He's very old-fashioned when it comes to things like that.  
  
'He is being kissed again, our friend's hands are moving under me. If his elbows are anything to go by, he is undoing my owner's pyjama top buttons. The pyjamas are starting to whimper again. I promised them I would try to find a way to let them stay the next time, but I don't honestly see what I can do. I hate to break a promise, but… Hold on. My owner is fighting free.'  
  
"No. Not the pyjamas. I absolutely and totally refuse to strip naked in a public room. If you want to do…this…you'll have to work around them. If anyone walks in, I want to be able to salvage a shred of dignity."  
  
"If I want to? Arthur, I'm not doing anything without your consent. You did let me kiss you." 'Undeniable, that. My owner is cracking. Our friend may not be able to feel it, but I can: that loss of reserve, the resurgence of the warm friendship he has always felt for this alien man, a warmth that easily melts into lo…ohhhhhh! Not only, has, the, excuse me being short of breath…Not only has our friend raked his hands savagely up my back, sending bolts of pleasure to the very cuffs of my sleeves, but the pyjamas have taken this as a fulfilment of my promise and done something unbelievably sensuous to me that I can't quite describe. They are so happy, I could cry. I am getting heightened pleasure signals from them that pervade my being. On top of the steadily rising emotions of desire coming from my owner, and the joyful adoration and dangerous smile of our friend, the cumulative Feeling is explosive in its intensity. I feel like I am hovering above my owner's shoulders on a cloud of pleasure. He is writhing under our friend's touch, the pyjamas are breathlessly reporting to me that his hand is inside the trousers, inside the underpants no less, and I am being rubbed up and down on the edge of the machine.  
  
'Our friend's hair is rubbing along my collar, he must be nuzzling his face into my owner's neck, His head is lolled back, His own hair tickling the top of my back. Our friend is fighting with the drawstring on the pyjama bottoms. My owner has tied it so tightly that the knot will not budge. Little noises of exasperation are escaping into my collar.'  
  
"Flying photons! This knot is hopeless, Arthur."  
  
"Here, let me do it." 'Well, if that isn't acquiescence, I don't know what is.  
  
'Our friend has broken away and we are all waiting in patient expectancy. The pyjamas are mortified: to think, it is their fault that proceedings are delayed. It could be that they will not get their chance after all…My owner's elbows are digging me in the sides. In my excited state, this feels like the most tender caress. His determined picking, learnt from his mother I think, hastriumphedover the knotat last; the pyjamas are heaving a sigh of relief and our friend is pressed back up against us. Part of my skirt has become trapped between them and I can feel the pressure of the lump in his trousers, rubbing insistently against my piping. He has undone the buttons on my owner's top and I can feel his hands roving inside. Now they are moving down. I can hear the sound of his own zip being undone. The pyjamas are in a state of high animation again. The bottoms are being eased down at the front: I can hear their squeals as they are hitched over the increasing bulge contained within the underpants, and slide deliciously down the underside of the bulge, making my owner shudder inside me. The underpants have judiciously slipped down to join the bottoms and they are exchanging joyful tugs on each other's fabric as they realise their dreams. I only hope the pyjama top is holding it together enough to continue to take this dictation.  
  
'I am slipping off my owner's shoulders. We are being bent backwards over the top of the machine as our friend kisses Him. Now his hands are trailing down my front again. Even through my thick wool and the soft cotton of the pyjamas, His nipples project, hard and proud; they stand even more erect as the fingers of our friend pull the pyjamas across them. Our friend's hands are gripping me hard at my owner's hips. He is kneeling in front of us. My owner's hips are thrusting madly backwards and forwards, threatening to dislodge me completely. He is steadying himself on the machine through me, but the slipperiness of the contact between me and it mean that He may soon lose his grip and fall.  
  
'I can hear him moaning softly, but his fevered mutterings are almost drowned out by the shrieks and sighs of the pyjamas. They are in paroxysms of ecstasy. Their fibres are electrified, the collar of the top runkled up round my owner's neck, its front panels dishevelled and folded back under me; the bottoms are almost insensible, they are touching my owner's skin and the waves of pleasure they are receiving from him must be nearly unbearable. They are bunched up at the back between me and the tense-muscled protrusions of his behind, and I can feel them twisting and turning, working themselves between the fleshy mounds with no consideration for his feelings. A change in vibration has occurred in the machine,'  
  
"Spin cycle commencing." 'The movements of my owner have increased in speed, our friend is gripping me with all his might, trying to prevent His vigorous motion, but with little success. The machine is speaking again, though no-one except me seems to hear. I am only listening because I shall explode if I don't take my mind off the physical sensation for a while,'  
  
"Spin cycle underway, please change the frequency of your thrusting, Sir, you are resonating with my casing and it is causing damage in a way that may invalidate my guarantee." 'My owner may not have heard but, oh Zarquon, He has increased His frequency none the less (save me!).'  
  
"Thank-you. Spin-cycle resumed. Four minutes remaining. Share and enjoy."  
  
'My owner is losing His grip. I can feel him sliding away from me. No! I can't leave now, I shall go mad, finish me off, I can't stand it…He is slipping away, I shall be left hanging on the edge of the machine, our friend's hands have moved and he no longer grips me, only the pyjamas, who cry out with the unforeseen pleasure/pain. I am being left behind. Hot misery is gnawing at me and the dye is starting to run on my left shoulder.  
  
'But I have been rescued! The Pyjama top, with a great flailing effort, has clung to me, twisting its fibres with mine in the last moment as it falls away from me with my owner. I am being dragged down with it, and now I lie, panting on top of them, my collar up over the top of my owner's head, my skirts surrounding our friend, caressing the back of his head, his curls brushing me lightly in return, dipping back and forth between me and my owner. His left elbow is moving against the inside of my right front skirt panel, catching on a worn patch that is turning into a hole, and I don't care in the least. Inside my confines it is a seething hot enclosure of lust and delight. The pyjamas are struggling manfully to keep up, but they are unused to this and they have been exhausted by the intensity of the experience. Their happy weariness is calming in the otherwise frenzied atmosphere beneath my folds. My owner is on His knees, our friend almost lying down, clinging to His waist as if it were the last thing in the galaxy.'  
  
"Spin cycle complete. Commencing pre-door-release cycle. One minute remaining, Share and enjoy." 'The washing machine clearly feels that since we are here, it may as well provide a commentary. At least it gives me a sense of time. I cannot believe that my owner has held out this long under such great attention. Perhaps it is our friend's skill. Or perhaps it is just that he is still aware, at least peripherally, of being in a fairly public place.  
  
'Now our friend's movements are becoming less organised. That elbow is moving more rapidly, he is moving erratically, scraping along the underside of my hem. The machine is chugging gently behind us, an accompaniment to four set of moans: my own, the pyjamas' (delirious now), our friend's, and my owner's. The chugging has stopped, there is a pause, a clunk, a whirr, it is off again, a rapid increase in pace to its final short spin, and my owner is shaking his head and his back is arching, and he stiffens,'  
  
"Fo-o-o-or-rd, unghhhh." 'And he falls forward and is silent, panting, and our friend is vibrating almost as fast as the washing machine as he lies, flattened under my fallen owner, and,'  
  
"A-a-a-a-r-thh-urgh-ohhh-z-unn-eurrr." 'My skirt is wet again where it covers him and he too lies still beneath me.'  
  
"Cycle completed, door unlocked. Please remove your load. Thank-you for using this washing machine, it has been my pleasure to provide you with clean clothes. Please take advantage of the other Sirius Cybernetics Corporation washing facilities in this room to finish your laundry to your complete satisfaction. Share and enjoy."  
  
'I can hear the door, it is sighing with pleasure.'  
  
"Thank-you for making a simple door very happy…"  
  
'Somebody has entered the room. I shall preserve the dignity of the heavily-breathing forms beneath me and cling tightly over them, since there is no-one else to perform this function. If only they had their towels, they could be better protected. I only hope this newcomer leaves quickly. Otherwise, I fear, I shall never get that wash, which I now need more than ever, as do the pyjamas.'


	4. Lying

'The footsteps are coming closer and the two bodies under me are not making a move. I think they are too exhausted to be aware of anything. Certainly, the pyjamas are out cold. I don't suppose they'll really be awake for the rest of the day.  
  
'A hand has landed softly on the very edge of my bottom hem. Another hand has grasped me carefully by the shoulder.  
  
'A third hand has hold of my left sleeve. What am I to do? I shall be removed from my owner, exposing him to these people, and I have no way of stopping it. I am not sufficiently wedged under him to hang on. Now the hands are pulling me upwards, I am being lifted away from my owner. Oh misery! My apologies, my owner. The other end of my bottom hem is still touching Him, and He is not moving. I am sure He realises He is discovered, I sense that He is awake. I suspect He hopes that by staying extremely still he may remain undetected. My hem sways and touches our friend. He too is unmoving. This may be sleep – I cannot tell – or it may be that my owner is lying on him and holding him very tightly about the middle and refusing to let him give them away.'  
  
"So this is where all the action was, hey? Wowee!"  
  
"Wowee." 'This second delivery is flat, quite unlike the first. It must be the other…No, I have it, it is the two-headed gentleman. My owner will not be pleased, He has a particular antipathy to this being.'  
  
"Hey, Ford, Ford, Ford."  
  
"Mmnnurgh." 'Our friend's hand is waving around, brushing past me, trying to catch hold of me and failing, as his palm faces away from me. I am being dropped, I fall in a heap onto their two bodies, causing my owner to jump with surprise. Our friend grasps the middle of my back, drawing me around his shoulders and pulling me away from my owner. I am sorry, but this won't do. I am all for sharing, but ownership is sacred.'  
  
"You choose the laundry to get it on with Monkey-man? Well, Zarquon knows he needs washing. Make yourself decent and come to the bridge, I've got something really wild to show you."  
  
"What?" 'This word is barely audible, but it is probably the only word he could possibly form in the circumstances, so it is easy enough to work out. There is a pause: evidently this other gentleman does not know 'what'.'  
  
"I've, uh, I've found us a planet full of…girls. And…drinks. Really strong drinks. Really friendly girls." 'This gentleman is warming to his theme.' "Come up to the bridge and take a look."  
  
'This piece of information seems to have revitalised our friend. He is pushing me back off his shoulders and I snuggle gratefully into my owner once more. The gentleman's footsteps are leaving the room and we three are alone again. My owner has raised his head,'  
  
"You're not going?" 'This comes out somewhere uncomfortably in between a moan and a statement of fact.'  
  
"Why not?" 'Genuine surprise. He really doesn't know. My owner is shaking with hurt and rage and I am too bunched up to soothe him. The pyjama top has even roused itself sufficiently to ask why the world is shaking…now it has passed out again'  
  
"Why do you want a planet with drink and girls, Ford?"  
  
"Because I want to get drunk and dance with girls." 'Now let's be honest, there really is no answer to that. He has stood up and appears to have recovered his energy, for his hands are upon me again, grasping my shoulders as he speaks.'  
  
"Coming, Arthur?"  
  
"No." 'A 'no' full of venom and resignation, a combination I might once have deemed impossible, but then, my owner has always had the capacity to surprise me. I am being lifted in the air: Put Me DOWN! Ah, I am being flapped out towards my owner's feet and laid oh so tenderly over Him, so that I cover Him neck to ankles as He is curled up under me. I let my collar sink into His hair and send out a little wave of thanks to our friend – who misinterprets it as a bolt of static and jumps back from us.'  
  
"Have a snooze, Arthur, I'll be back later."  
  
'An acute stab of emotional pain has just shot through me, my owner is terribly sad and there is nothing I can…wait, maybe there is. I am attempting to rouse the pyjamas again. The top is still recording for me, but it is on autopilot. I stretch out my perception, a faint consciousness reaches me to our right, it is our friend's blazer. It is dozing and not very talkative anyway, but if I pester it enough… ah, it is giving in. I am instructing it to pass on a message to our friend's other clothes when it is convenient so to do. I hope that their combined efforts may be able to bring him back to my owner. Speaking of whom… He is making an effort to get up. The pyjamas softly moan as He pulls them tentatively back up to His waist, covering up again. I am about to be put on again, oh well, maybe I'll get a wash tom…No, I am being removed again, He is making thoroughly disgusted noises and honestly I am not surprised. He is bundling me up with very little ceremony and pushing me through the door of the washing machine ("Thank-you, share and enjoy"). I am catching on the rubber seal all the way through; it hurts, but I am too concerned about my owner to care. The door has shut and all is silence. It opens again, the pyjamas have entered the machine. They are trying to work out where they are, but failing miserably. The door shuts again. I wonder what my owner is wearing. Surely he is not going to sit there wearing only the underpants? …The pyjamas are telling me 'no'. Apparently, before he took off the bottoms, he donned the blazer and wrapped a laundry bag around his waist. I can't help feeling that this must be a sight to behold.  
  
The cycle is starting. Somehow this links us with the rest of the ship, something to do with the way the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Genuine People Personality machines all interconnect on this ship. I am aware of voices: Eddie the computer firing out cheery greetings. The doors, thanking…my owner! Oh, I may track his progress round the ship if I concentrate, but it is so difficult: I am being soaked in soothing jets of warm water, soap bubbles form and burst around me, leaving tingling sensations as they gently lift the dirt from my fibres. The drum is spinning and I wrap myself carefully around the pyjamas, twisting my sleeves with theirs so that they will not be frightened by the motion. The drum has stopped, we sink to the bottom, lazing in the frothy water. Now it turns the other way, unwinding me from the pyjamas, which cry out, but are saved before I must let go completely as the drum stops again. So many times we repeat this, as we get cleaner and cleaner, the replaced water becoming more and more pleasant just to lie in. The pyjama top has somehow inveigled its way into me and is caressing the inside of my breast fabric with its wet collar, leaving me helplessly aroused. The washing machine knows. It always has this effect on those of us who are washed. It lets us lie at the bottom of its drum, savouring the silence and the warmth and the bittersweet separation from my owner.  
  
'Now it must start up again, the soap powder is no longer needed, I am clean. Fresh jets of rinsing water cleanse the last of it from me as we head for the spin. The pyjamas really do not like this bit. The bottoms have wound their left cuff into my pocket in anticipation and I am trying to let it slip out without offending them, as I do not wish to be ripped if they are pulled suddenly away from me. The top has spread itself through me, we shall be flattened together, here it comes…  
  
'Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh.  
  
'…the spin is over and we are tight to the walls of the drum, the bottoms stretched across me, wincing as the force of gravity starts to pull their fibres out of the pattern of holes that covers the drum surface. I do not suffer in this way, having too thick a weave, but I can feel the lumps as they slide past me, and the relief of the top that it was inside me and therefore did not suffer. The top is shuffling its threads around, driving me mad with the sensation as the drum slowly turns, letting us unwind and become a damp heap at the bottom. I can feel a peak of excitement as the final spin whirls us once again, but more gently this time, then clicks to a stop. I am so entangled with the pyjamas that their very thoughts are a part of me, but I am trying to prise my concentration away from the comfortable pleasures of the pyjama top and back to the voices I can perceive through the machine network.'  
  
"Tell me where they are!" 'That is the voice of my owner. I hear it through the aural circuits of Eddie. He sounds very agitated, the doors are all clamouring to be heard,'  
  
"Don't tell him Eddie, he has been very rude to us all the way round…"  
  
"Hey, guys, you know I can't lie to him, share and enjoy, yes?" 'Grumbling assent from the doors.'  
  
"Okay, those two other guys are in the galley, and could I ask you to be a little nicer to the doors on your way through the ship?" 'Cheery as ever, but the doors are pleased. I can hear them sighing and thanking my owner all the way, though it seems that He storms through, paying them no heed. Now He has reached the kitchen and I can hear Him through the Nutri-Matic. No, actually, the first thing I hear is an almost silent exclamation mark on the part of the two-headed gentleman. Then my owner speaks,'  
  
"Right. That's it. I want an answer. Why did you do that? Why do you insist on dragging him away just when…well…" 'He has chickened out of actually saying it. I'm not surprised; it was a little unorthodox.'  
  
"Hey, Monkey-man, nice get-up." 'It is very hard to tell whether he is serious or not. Given the conversations I have had with his clothes, I suspect he is.'  
  
"Never mind my clothes. I happen to be washing the only ones I managed to salvage from my planet. That I have those few is thanks entirely to that man…lying…face down…on the floor…with a smashed glass in his hand…looking like…hell…what have you done to him?" 'That smile I mentioned earlier as belonging to our friend manifests itself in this, his fellow Betelgeusian as more of a cheeky and slightly coy grin: a grin that knows its owner has misbehaved just a little. It is powerful enough to reach me across the network and send a shiver down my fibres that the pyjama top thinks is for itself. This causes me to have to pause in my eavesdropping to let a shiver run the other way, before I shake myself and let my cuff fall on the pyjama top to quiet it.  
  
"What. Did. You. Do?" 'My owner's voice is full of menace.'  
  
"Hey, what? Stay cool, Ape-man. I just gave him those drinks I promised him."  
  
"I thought you said it was a planet, with girls."  
  
"Did I?" 'I have never heard anyone sound so perfectly innocent, but it has put venom back into my owner's speech,'  
  
"Yes. 'I have found a planet with drink and girls', you said, and off he runs to follow you. That's bad enough, but I don't understand why you're still here. What did you give him to drink?"  
  
"We-ell. I might just have let him have a couple of rather strong Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters."  
  
"Two?"  
  
"…well maybe three. He's having a great time. I know."  
  
"Why did you lie to him?" 'My owner is getting to the nub of the problem.'  
  
"I didn't lie to him. I just discovered I might have lied to me, afterwards. I mean, I told myself there was this planet. Too bad I'm unreliable like that. Turned out not to be quite true, so to make it up to him I…"  
  
"No. No. Definitely no. I think I know what happened. You didn't want him to be there with me. I heard you. You were jealous, weren't you?" 'There is a knowing tone about His voice now…'  
  
"You wanted to get him out, so you told him that cock and bull story, knowing full well that, for whatever bizarre reason, Ford has an insatiable need for drink and…girls. And you tricked him into drinking too much and now… I should like an apology."  
  
"Say what? You want me to apologise to you? What for?"  
  
"For stealing Ford away from me when you have no need whatsoever for him yourself. For incapacitating him just because you're not getting it from Trillian, who, I might add, you pretty much stole from me in the first place." 'He must be angry to say that. He's usually fairly prudish about such things.'  
  
"Hey! Who says I'm not getting it from Trill? It's none of your business Earth-man, but things happen to be extremely hoopy with her at the moment."  
  
"Then why, pray, are you so jealous of me and…and Ford?" 'He is sinking into embarrassment again, I hope he can hold out, it would humiliating for him to lose his grip now.'  
  
"I'm not jealous, I just don't think you deserve him. I do."  
  
"Are you, or are you not, related? And are you, or are you not, involved with Trillian? Don't you think it's a little greedy to want two people?" 'Uh oh. A chill has swept through the room so strongly that the air-conditioning system has adjusted itself to pump out a little more heat.'  
  
"Count the heads, Monkey-man." 'A voice like ice clinging to an angry polar-bear.' "You are talking to Zaphod Beeblebrox."  
  
"Very impressive. Two heads need two playthings do they?" 'The dangerous ground is bringing out a streak of hitherto unsuspected bravado in my owner.'  
  
"Hey, listen. You are on my ship…"  
  
"Your stolen sh…"  
  
"MY ship, where my semi-cousin is very welcome and you are here under sufferance because he likes you. Now if I happen to feel that something needs doing, I'll do it. So go and have a nice cold shower and a little chat with Marvin or something and we'll all be much happier. 'My owner is definitely not satisfied by this solution.' "Why do you care anyway? I thought you were still sore with me about Trill."  
  
"Because I lo…" '…Ach, no, he has chickened out again.' "How did you know, anyway?"  
  
"Know what?"  
  
"That we were there."  
  
"Oh, I was just checking out the security cameras. There was nothing important on the news…"  
  
"Nothing about you, you mean." 'My owner mutters almost inaudibly.'  
  
"So I had a look around. Trillian was fully clothed, so I kept looking until I found something happening in the laundry. Then I sauntered on down."  
  
'There is a long pause. It seems my owner has no response to this. I think the very idea of being watched is too much for him. It is not something I am too pleased about myself. I am sure it is not a thing that should be watched by outsiders. My owner is making little strangled noises. They are slowly resolving into speech.  
  
"Did you…en…joy yourself?"  
  
"Watching you and Ford? No. You were a complete sight. And since there was too much clothing in the way, I thought I'd just come down and stop it. Or join in if I was invited."  
  
"What!" 'I imagine He just nearly hit the ceiling.'  
  
"Not that I'm interested in you, but my semi-cousin is always good for a laugh." 'I wonder if that is an insult? There are moans coming from near floor level. Our friend must be stirring.'  
  
"Hey, Ford baby, you've got a better head than I gave you credit for, you should have been out a couple of hours at least."  
  
"I knew it!" 'That is my owner on high frequency again.'  
  
"Wuh…wasssat th, thr, three Paan Galaflapt, galactri…wait. Galacteric bargle gaster…gargle ga…blaskers?"  
  
"Did you drink three, baby?" 'That tone of innocence again.'  
  
"Three. Ther…eeeeeeeee…" 'He has tailed off. I hope he is alright, my owner is making worried noises. I can hear sliding, slipping noises, now the crash of a chair and the sound of shoes being used haphazardly on linoleum flooring. I think our friend may be trying to get up.'  
  
"Well give him a hand, Monkey." 'I can almost hear my owner biting back a sharp retort about 'some people'. He is grunting with the effort of pulling our friend to his feet. I wish I were there to help him.  
  
'The door of the washing machine has opened and outside sounds rush in, obliterating the machine-relay.'  
  
"…planet and what do they tell me to do? Go and put the washing into the drier. Oh yes, very taxing, that. I'll just work out the exact spatial positioning of every atom of the clothing and dirty water and plot its relationship to the central axis of the ship first shall I? At least I might use a thousandth of a percentage of my brain doing that. Oh yes, and you can separate a couple of garments that became too friendly in the wash while you're at it. As if they knew. Friendly, bah. Don't talk to me about friends. I'll just put them in the drier and hope the effort kills me…Ah well, better luck next…"  
  
'The drier door has shut on his final words. He knows about us in a way the humanoids do not. It is a little embarrassing to be mentioned in despatches like that though. It's not my fault the pyjamas were still overexcited from earlier. However, I don't think anyone was listening. Now the drier is starting up. It hums to us as it spins, I think it would like someone to talk to, but it is above talking to us, so it just hums. My skirts are all bunched up, they will not dry properly like this. I am trying to get the pyjama bottoms to stretch me out as they pass, but they have become giggly now and will not listen properly. I can hear through the machines again. If only the drier would stop humming, I could hear more clearly. I can only catch odd words, most of them are not making sense…'  
  
"…s'luvly, isn't h…ic…"  
  
"…if he is, but blast you I…"  
  
"…little more hoopy about…"  
  
"…really…um…eggshell, excell, ent..egg, ent. No, really…"  
  
"…that true Ape man?…"  
  
"…know that I…"  
  
"…about it, you know, but hey, it might be interesting to…  
  
"…definitely not."  
  
"…what I wash…about to do Arthr…er…"  
  
"…with girls. And drink…"  
  
"…Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Girullls, yes…"  
  
"…with me, so I thought it was a little unfair to…"  
  
"…don't think like you, Monkey-man…"  
  
'At last, the drier has got bored and stopped humming. Maybe they will make more sense now.'  
  
"Zaph, Zaph…you know I only want to d-dance withuh girls doncha? See, th'nice to dan, he, ance with…I wanted Ar…Arthuurr to have an ap, puch, so's I could have hi, when we get back." 'Maybe not, then. He is hiccupping and still seems to be sliding around, though I think, from the noises he is making, that my owner is still supporting him.'  
  
"You wanted to sleep with Monkey-man again? Hey, you must be good. I've known Ford a long time and he knows about some things, and this is one of them."  
  
"Get off me." 'My owner sounds quite vehement. Whatever this gentleman is doing, it must be inappropriate.'  
  
"Put Ford down, he's no good to you like that anyway." 'There are struggling noises. A thump. A sound like someone whose vocal chords remember that a fall like that should produce pain, but whose brain is too far out of it to back them up.'  
  
"No I…That's not fair. Two heads is an unfair advantage…This is not…Get your hands off me…and that one…" 'My owner seems to be struggling against possession by this gentleman. The drier is working its magic and I am becoming befuddled with static. I can still hear, just…'  
  
"No. Za…Zaphod, no. He's mine. Gerrofim…" 'That is our friend. He seems to be regaining some sort of tenuous grip on the situation. I hear…'  
  
"But Ford, baby, just let me…"  
  
"No. Mine."  
  
"Whoo-oah." 'That seems to be my owner falling to the floor, judging by the closely-following thud. I can hear something, like a linen laundry bag crackling on linoleum and something else…the sound of our friend's jacket muttering, as if under duress, to our friend's other clothes. It is telling them not to let our friend leave my owner. It is a little unnecessary now, but I am grateful that it passed on the message. "Let go Ford, your breath smells terrible."  
  
"Can't, I'm'tached."  
  
"What? Oh. I don't know what's happened here…keep still, you're making it worse. Your jumper is…I don't know, all the loose threads on your blazer cuff seem to be caught up, they're almost woven into your jumper." 'Zarquon bless those clothes, they are doing more than I could ever have asked of them, that's no mean feat they have performed.' "Hang on, I'll take it off." 'No!'  
  
"No. Don'bother. Jus'stay there, I wanna hug." 'The drier cycle has stopped. I am dry and feeling very sleepy. The pyjamas have calmed down again and their fibres exchange crackles of static with me, making me gasp with pleasure, I love that robot for not using anti-static sheets. He has opened the door again and I can no longer hear my owner."  
  
"…down my left-hand side, and still they expect me to haul washing around. Come with me, laundry. I'll take you back to you owner. Not that it should really be my job, but since I'm the only one around here who isn't trying to have recreational sex with someone else, I suppose it comes down to me in the end. For all the thanks I get…" 'And I am falling into slumber…'


	5. In Memory of...

'I must have been dozing for a few hours. I am hanging in my owner's room once more. I cannot work out where he is, but I am sure he'll be along soon. The robot must have hung me here. I suppose he was not keen to go looking for my owner. He sounds as if he has enough on his plate.  
  
'The door has opened with an ecstatic 'thank-you'. I can hear the purposeful stride of my owner. He is going to put me back on! Oh joy, oh bliss, oh…blgium (please excuse my language). He has been stopped, I can hear the rustle of blazer on skin,'  
  
"Have it back then. I don't want it. I can quite do without the jumper hanging from my sleeve." 'Well done Jumper and Blazer!' " I'm going to put on my pyjamas, if you wouldn't mind turning around."  
  
"Honestly, Arthur. I've seen more of you than that. And, why are you wearing a laundry bag?"  
  
"Well, you might not remember, but you ran off and left me in filthy clothes in the laundry room, with those infuriating machines and none of the clothes you had promised to lend me when mine needed washing. So I had to make do. Not only that, but given your reasons for rushing off, I had to follow you, and by the time I got back to the laundry, after getting you, reeling drunk, into bed, first having hauled you out of your jumper so that I could part company with you, and getting rid of Zaphod at last, my washing had disappeared. The machines told me that Marvin - who I am sure would be a joy to his friends, if any could be found - had finished my washing for me, and taken it away. I have since spent the entire afternoon trying to track down that infuriating metal sulk-bag, who refused to answer, even though I know perfectly well that he can hear any of us at any time. Having located him, and listened to a half-hour lecture on the misery of his diodes and the monotony of his life, and having totally failed to convince him that my life might not be quite so rosy right now either, he eventually told me that he had put my clothes back in my room. Which is why, five hours later, I am still wearing a laundry bag and your blazer, and why I would like you to turn round."  
  
'Apparently our friend (whose solidity of constitution is proved by the fact that he now sounds impossibly sober) has turned round, for I can hear the sighs of the pyjamas as they are slipped back on and now…yes, at last, I am grasped by my collar, by my owner! His other hand runs along my collar, pulling it flat, before I am swept in that oh-so-familiar motion, swiftly flapping out behind Him, swirling in the air as He struggles his arms down my sleeves, shrugging me on before grasping my two centre piped edges, overlapping me and tying what is left of my sprung cord about His waist, holding me firmly in place. We are turning, starting off at that brisk trot again, out into the corridor. It seems my owner is not keen to be in a confined space with our friend.  
  
'The doors are sighing and singing with the pleasure of being able to open for people, and I can hear the hurried trip-trap of our friend's feet as he tries to keep up with my tall owner, who, after all, has a much longer stride than him.  
  
'We have passed through the final door and are back on the bridge. At last our friend has caught up with us and speaks, careless of the other gentleman in the room.  
  
"Why did you have to get rid of Zaphod?"  
  
"Ford, he tried to kiss me."  
  
"Hey, what?" 'The other gentleman has spoken up and that wholly innocent tone is back again. If I hadn't heard what happened earlier myself, I would have been tempted to believe him.' "Me?"  
  
"Don't start that. You know perfectly well what you were trying to do, and I don't appreciate it. Ford, you stopped him, don't you remember?"  
  
"Don't remember a thing. It's a blank from the second…no the third drin…did I drink three? Three mixed by Zaphod?" 'My owner is nodding vigorously. I can feel that coy grin from the two-headed gentleman again.' "Zaphod, did you let me?"  
  
"Hey! I wasn't about to stop you having a good time. Come on! It was a blast!"  
  
"I thought you said there were girls."  
  
"Perhaps. It doesn't matter. You said you only wanted to dance with them anyway, so it hardly makes any difference."  
  
"When did I say that?"  
  
"You mean it's not true?" 'Oh dear. My owner's gaze is shuttling back and forth between the pair of them, trying to keep up with the sense of the thing, but that last query has veritably pricked up his ears. I do hope he will not be upset by this conversation.'  
  
"It's…well, I mean, obviously, if there was anything else in the offing…" 'I can hear the shuffling of the other gentleman's extensive eyebrows as they try to rise into a position of greater integrity with the rest of his hair. Our friend is starting to sound a little shifty. I can tell that he knows his semi-cousin knows…something, and he's trying to recover the information without anyone noticing.'  
  
"You were quite happy to go out, so long as Monkey-man was having a nap so he'd be all fresh for you to do whatever you wanted with him when you got back."  
  
'Someone is laughing…it is our friend. It is not a comfortable laugh. It is the nervous and dismissive laugh of someone who has been caught with their trousers down in the middle of a field and wants to pass it off as an emergency toilet stop…while the sheep look on passively. It is not convincing anybody. My owner is finding the laugh rather informative. In fact, He is starting to come down from the rather chilly heights of His disapproval.'  
  
"Ford…did you mean that?" 'Ah, we are heading into territory that seems to scare both my owner and our friend.'  
  
"What? Er…Look, Arthur, whatever Zaphod might have said…"  
  
"No, I heard you. And you stopped him. You wouldn't let him…well…You said…you said I was…yours." 'Good grief, that took Him long enough to get out. I think He's finding this a little awkward with the other gentleman in the room.' "Can we talk about this somewhere else?" 'I was right!'  
  
"Zarquon's teeth, Arthur! I was drunk. You can't trust what I say when I'm drunk. Zaphod, would you trust anything I might say when I'm drunk?"  
  
"Every word, baby!" 'The other gentleman's smile is radiating again, only it seems more like our friend's this time. He must be very sure of himself to say that in our friend's present mood…What am I saying?'  
  
"Lot of help you are." 'My owner is shuffling most uncomfortably.'  
  
"You mean you didn't mean any of it? Can we please go somewhere else to discuss this?" 'He's whining again. The two-headed gentleman has come over and put his arm around my owner, I think the other is round our friend. I can hear three heartbeats, all faster than they should be – my owner is upset and annoyed with the other gentleman and hopelessly smitten with the man not two paces from him; our friend is clearly besotted with my owner and feeling concerned about what he might have given away; and if I'm not much mistaken, just being near these two makes the other gentleman's heart race in a way I feel sure is not in keeping with his thoroughly cool exterior. Given the dislike I know my owner feels for this gentleman, the emotions I am getting from Him do not entirely match up. In addition to this, the emotions of which I catch snatches from the other gentleman do not align well with the avuncular style he has adopted for his next little speech.'  
  
"Hey, Ford, the monkey's right. You don't want me around while you sort out your relationship problems. For one thing, it's not a particularly hoopy thing to listen to when you're not involved, and for another, if I'm not invited to the final outcome, I don't want to know what's going on. Basically, if it's not about me, or seriously likely to become about me, take it somewhere else. You did say you wanted to hop back in the sack with the ape-man as soon as you could, so why not go and find somewhere quiet and get on with it?" 'I think he's actually angling for an invite. He's going to be disappointed. Our friend is speechless. I think he had persuaded himself that his semi-cousin might restrain himself. This jolt back to reality has rather thrown him and he has his hand on my owner's arm. I can compare the two grips on my pile: That of our friend is nervous and fidgety, picking at my bobbles and plucking my runkles with an air of anxiety; that of the other gentleman is firm and powerful. It is extremely self-conscious, but assured; as if there is nothing more noteworthy in the universe than that this hand is…wherever it might be. It is clear that the owner of this hand is a man of the utmost importance…however cheekily he might be grinning at the two other men. But our friend is still trying to think of something to do with his mouth and he has left commands to the rest of his body in abeyance. We are all three of us standing in silence, while the two-headed gentleman smiles serenely and looks between the two of them, my owner studies the floor, and our friend irons creases into my sleeve with the heat of his hand.'  
  
"Go on. Zark off. Go and play someplace else. I'll send Marvin to check on you later if you don't go now." 'His tone is still friendly. He seems to have got over the fact that neither of these others want to sleep with him right now, perhaps because I can feel the presence of another human in the room, a female, I think he expects to get some action from her, shortly. He must be feeling good, because if I am not much mistaken, he has just tapped my owner on the nose in a familiar way, before pushing the three of us away. My owner must have spotted the female, for he has grabbed hold of our friend's sleeve and once again, we are running from the bridge.  
  
'The jumper is swinging from our friend's blazer sleeve, he has not yet found a way to disentangle the two yet. I shall have to ask them to separate, they might get cut otherwise. The jumper is banging against my skirts as we pelt down the corridors and I try to hang on to it, it is in pain - swinging from such a small connection is stretching its fibres terribly. I don't know why our friend couldn't tie it around his waist to save them the discomfort, but then I suppose he doesn't realise – we must give him the benefit of the doubt.  
  
'We have swung to the left and stop while we wait for a door to open. It is its pleasure to open for us…oh yes, and its satisfaction to close again in the knowledge of a job well done. If only my owner could accept pleasure so easily himself. A distinct chill is in the air in this room, so I assume we are back in my owner's room. The jumper is squealing: our friend is pulling its sleeve away from the blazer with force, and under this tension it cannot relinquish its grip, but just knots more tightly into the other's threads. I would try to help, but our friend is giving up anyway.'  
  
"I can't get these clothes apart, Arthur."  
  
"Oh, very well. Give them here. I'll try to get them apart for you. I suppose I should be grateful that I was taught such things when I was little. Funny, the bits of education you suddenly need when you're stuck on a spaceship. If anyone had asked me, I would have said it would be the physics and maths, all that sort of thing. But no: the most useful thing I can do for anyone out here is unpick threads."  
  
"Not very warm, is it?" 'Our friend seems to have ignored all that my owner has just said. It does become a bit of a habit to blank him out after a while.'  
  
"I thought it was rather too warm actually. Here." 'No! He is removing me! Surely, surely he is not going to lend me to our friend? How could he? The pyjamas are waking, they are surprised to feel me going. They are asking why…I cannot answer them…is this the beginning of the end? I'm sorry. It is not the done thing, to cry, but I fear for my future if He starts to loan me out. I can't help it, shudders of misery are wracking my warp threads, the cream checks under my right sleeve are being stained with running maroon, I feel sore and unhappy and I cannot think straight…' "Put this on. It's clean now."  
  
"You're lending me your dressing gown?" 'Our friend seems to realise the enormity of this, if not the whole significance. Something in what our friend said in his cups has touched my owner. He believes, even without confirmation, and this has given him a certain confidence and calm, the lack of which had driven him deeper into his relationship with me. I can do nothing until something happens to bring him back to me. At least we three are still together. The universe has not yet collapsed for me: there is still hope.  
  
'I am transferred from my owner's hands to our friend's. These hands have lost their nervousness, they are oddly comforting, it is as if he seeks to touch my owner through his fondling of me. However, he is keen that my owner should not spot this, so he is pulling me on. He uses a different action to my owner in drawing me about his shoulders. I slide awkwardly over the sleeves of his shirt. I have not met this shirt properly before – it is usually concealed beneath the jumper and leaves with it when it goes. We sit in silence, neither willing to make contact first. I decide to brave the waters and introduce myself. I apologise for being there as an outsider, but ask that it should accept me as a friend. It seems to be a little sore at me, because it knows about me, and it is another frequent member of the exiled clothing brigade. What can I say? I have no excuses for this, so I wait, and in a short while, it grudgingly settles its threads against mine and lets me sink exploratory fuzz through the gaps in its weave to get closer to the skin below. When it comes down to it, shirts can usually be relied upon to cooperate. They have no choice really; they are in contact with so many others.  
  
'We are sitting waiting. Our friend is watching my owner, it is very strange being upon his person instead of my owner's. It is not at all like when I have covered him in their intimate moments. Being properly worn is so much more intense. It reminds me of the first time I was worn by my owner – the same rush of sensation. Maybe it is a little less this time because I have known this man for so long, but it is still the influx of another mind, another metabolism. A strange and alien metabolism, but a mind so wrapped up in its thoughts of my owner, that the complete otherness of it is heavily disguised at present. I can sense his emotions, they feel different to the corresponding emotions I have felt in my owner. His body temperature is slightly higher and his shape feels odd, filling my folds. I relax myself around his form, trying to make the most of this. His hair on my collar surprises me; it is so normal to me to feel only the slightest feathery touches of the hair on the nape of my owner's neck, that the constant tickle of light curls is unusual and delicious.  
  
'Our friend is shorter than my owner, and I am baggier on him. As he gets up and starts to pace, I swirl about his lower calves and almost trip him. He is hitching me up above my cord so that I am puffed out over it. My owner is laughing, a sound I rarely hear these days.'  
  
"Ford, you look very peculiar. I'm not sure it suits you."  
  
"Well if you get a move on with that blazer, you can have it back."  
  
"Charming! May I point out that I am doing this as a favour for you?"  
  
"You wanted to do it. I'd have just cut it personally. Why did you want to?"  
  
"Because…well you did say some nice things about me, and you did protect me, even if you were drunk. I just thought, maybe, you were actually telling the truth, and, maybe, you don't want to admit it now. Or…or I might be wrong. There!"  
  
"Which bit did you want to be true?" 'Hello! Is he actually going to admit something? He seems to be ignoring the blazer, which my owner is pushing insistently at my sleeve.'  
  
"Mmm?" 'My owner was not listening.'"  
  
"Which bit did you…" 'My owner is on me, the blazer flung to one side. He is radiating an energy akin to desperation. He has certainly surprised our friend: although I am being swamped by the familiar rush of my owner's feelings, I am aware of a deeper hum within me, a bass rumble of roaring desire that I never felt when I was not being worn by this man. This roar is so powerful and low that it resonates with the core of my fibres and I am throbbing along with it. In fact, my owner has launched himself with such abandon at our friend that we have fallen backwards. My owner's legs are awkwardly tangled in my dangling left hem, so that on that side I have been pulled down past my cord, back to my normal position, but am lopsided with regard to my right hand side. My owner has managed to wriggle his hands through the gap between my side panels and my sleeves, he is hugging us so tightly that he is actually restricting our friend's breathing. To be honest, however, our friend really doesn't seem to mind. It feels as if his smile has been inverted, not to a frown, but to an internal expression of joy that fills him fit to burst. Between the bass throb of passion inside me, the wholly alien experience of being worn by this man, and the urgency of my owner, I cannot help feeling that I will be lucky to last this one out.  
  
'My owner's hands are being withdrawn and I can feel him shifting his weight. Now His hands have come down on my front panels and he is pushing, oh, how he is pushing. I cannot tell what he intends at this distance, but the pressure is making our friend's mental processes rather disconnected.'  
  
"Ford. Did you mean what you said?" 'His voice is shaking and I am not at all sure that he should be trying to speak right now.'  
  
"About what, Arthur?" 'Despite his slight incapacitation, our friend has retained his ability to sound quite cool and innocent. It is enough to drive my owner mad, and it is to my infinite sorrow that I cannot feel his mood to my satisfaction, nor help in any real way, though I do manage to relax my fabric under his hands, becoming softer and more pliable to give him more comfortable purchase.'  
  
"About…well, that you…that you wanted me to be available…that you wouldn't…with the girls…Although I'm a little hurt that it was enough of a lure to get you to…Oh, it doesn't matter."  
  
"Good." 'That's it? Oh, yes, that is it. My owner's hands have slid inside my breast fabric. He is lying on top of our friend with his arms around him and if I have been squashed between them before, it is nothing to now. The blazer and jumper are forgotten and there is a cocoon of silence around us, or at least, I think there is. I can absorb no more than the complex stream of feeling flowing in a torus between my owner and our friend. It is as if my consciousness is borne upon it. It must be the peculiarity of our friend's brainwaves that consumes me so utterly. The only other awareness I have is that there is a kiss. There is none of the reserve that I have felt in my owner on previous occasions. I cannot tell whether this is because it is not there, or simply because I am not privy to his innermost thoughts at this remove. Nevertheless, the atmosphere is subtly changed. We are together, hands are moving within me. Somehow, my owner's right foot is in my left skirt pocket, his pyjamaed knee brushing my armscye. I shall be ripped if he moves too much, but this time he does not seem to be in too much of a hurry.  
  
"Have a nice day!"  
  
"Hve a nice day? God I hate doors." 'We have company. The two people within me are aware of it, but for some reason are ignoring it completely. If my owner has any qualms about being found in this position, He has successfully ignored them.'  
  
"I was sent to find out if you wanted anything. Fat lot of good it will do me. Do you suppose that anything anyone on this ship could possibly ask me to do would be enough to provide me with a moment's stimulation? No, I don't imagine you even considered it. And me, with this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side." 'Our friend has had enough.'  
  
"Zaphod sent you, didn't he?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He just couldn't resist it, not even after I'd promised him we could…" 'He has stopped. He is looking at my owner carefully. I can feel the smile coming…here it is. From here, from where I am being worn it is terribly, terribly painful, but I do not want it to stop. This smile is a concealing smile, an apology smile, a making-up smile. And I would say that it has fooled my owner. Whatever it was that our friend nearly let slip, it will never matter now. It is nothing.'  
  
"Well? Is there anything you want, or have I been dragged here for nothing, aching diodes and all?"  
  
"No, we don't want anything thank-you Marvin. Could you go away now please?"  
  
"I didn't think you'd want anything. I told him, but after all, I'm only a menial robot. Why should he listen to me?"  
  
"Marvin."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Go find a way to satisfy yourself."  
  
"The dressing gown won't be happy about being on you, you know." 'A pause. He is only half right. While my owner is here, I am enjoying the novelty, but if he goes I will be heartbroken. Our friend is trying to work out what the robot means. My owner has raised his head from our friend's chest.'  
  
"It's alright Marvin, I'm not leaving it here. Now be a good chap and go away, would you? I'm having a strange enough day as it is." 'Oh my owner! The highest blessings of most holy Zarquon be upon you for ever! He understands. I am not forsaken. The robot is grumbling to himself as he leaves. I don't suppose he will find satisfaction, but he can hardly say that no-one told him to. The door is sighing and he is gone.  
  
'My owner has raised his head once more and shuffled his way upwards. My pocket is indeed developing a slight tear in its top corner.'  
  
"Arthur," 'Slight breathiness from our friend.' "You really are squashing me."  
  
"Sorry." 'His foot moves in an effort to adjust himself and…yes, my pocket is torn from my front down one side. The flash of pain that accompanies this is brief, I am concerned for my appearance, but somehow I know that this time I will be mended, and it doesn't hurt me as it might have done a short time ago. My owner and our friend have rolled onto me, I am stretched tightly under them, my owner now inside me.  
  
'Lying on their sides, our friend reaches inside me and his hand pulls down, I am stroking the pyjama bottoms and their confusion is evident: why am I not with them for this. They are not sure of themselves without me, even though I am so close. My other sleeve is trapped under my owner, I can feel the hum of thwarted circulation in our friend's arm; he will have to move it soon. As his hand moves inside my owner's underpants, an explosion of feeling swamps me once again. My owner is moving deliriously, purposelessly. Their two heads are locked together, moving along my collar in unison.  
  
'My owner is trying to kick off the pyjama bottoms, but they are taking matters into their own hands – they refuse to be shaken. By a series of complicated gymnastic manoeuvres, He has managed to get one leg out of them, but the other leg is clinging to His leg-hairs and he has given up trying. The pyjamas are cheering, pulling the underpants along with them, winding themselves tightly around His ankle and curling up their excess under His leg.  
  
'Meanwhile, our friend, by a series of movements I take to denote unbuttoning (though his muscle movements are somewhat different to those of my owner), has pulled the pyjama top apart, so that my lapel rests lightly on His bare chest, mingling with the sparse hairs there. He is already sweating a little and His arms are rubbing me as He works a reciprocal motion to open the front of our friend's shirt. The shirt is beside itself, it cannot believe its luck. It is exchanging joyful cries with the pyjamas and they are all terribly well disposed towards me. That throbbing hum is becoming deafening now, and my fibres twist themselves loose and taut with it as my owner runs his hands up and down our friend's chest. The lightest brush over his nipples and I am away, arching from his back as electric ecstasy fires through us. The shirt and I are glued together so that it comes with me as I go, and is pulled back with me as a shrug of our friend's shoulders pulls me back up and in. Somewhere in the midst of this, our friend's trousers have been lost. I think I heard their wail as they went. It is sad to see them go, but they are tough and unyielding and cannot really help but get in the way, no matter how hard they try. Those of us left at the scene are no longer in a fit state to worry about them anyway. I am aware of nothing but the tangle of legs within me, the motion that threatens to rip me in two as they struggle, sometimes with, sometimes against each other, their heads and upper bodies still so tightly locked that their lower bodies seem to be dancing on their own.  
  
'Our friend has discovered the lack of feeling in his hand and has wrenched it quickly out from under my owner, scraging his elbow up the inside of my sleeve which remains trapped. He is flinging it about inside my confines, yowling in discomfort and battering both me and my owner.'  
  
"Ford, stop hitting me…"  
  
"Sorry, Arthur, ow…" 'Now he is calming down again, finding the ability to move his fingers again very useful. I can feel his hand stroking down my owner's side, running in a straight line down the verticals of my pattern. Individual fibres are reaching out from me to caress his fingers – I know he will probably find them scratchy, but I can't help that. He has brought his other arm round over my owner's back and I am wrapped tightly around them. My owner's knees are digging into my back panels, his fingers grasping, clutching for me behind our friend's back. At last He has found purchase on my weave and I can feel him twisting me into a knot of bunched fabric, stretching my pattern out of shape and…oh my! Now that he is gripping me like this, I have access to his emotions again and, oh Zarquon, it is heaven. I can feel nothing but the deepest adoration, a regular movement of hips and legs is backing up the throb of our friend's mental processes. I may be utterly ruined after tonight, but what a way to go!  
  
'Now their movements are getting faster, my lapel is being pulled between them by our friend; he is holding me over my owner's face, my owner breathes through me in long shuddering gasps of ecstasy and I hold my fibres in tightly, so as not to let any of them fall into His open mouth. There is no sense whatsoever in my owner's thoughts now, and only the tenderest, most unfamiliar thoughts in the mind of our friend. The pyjama top is worming its way up, trying to reach our owner's lips, but in vain, it is too tightly pinned under the arms.  
  
'I can hear the tiny electronic sounds of the security camera being jealously zoomed in. I don't suppose these two are aware of it, and in fact, I don't care about it, though I normally would.  
  
'The world is spinning for me, the hot wet breath firing through my weave is making me dizzy and I can no longer control myself. I grip my fibres fiercely on both sides and drag myself in, pulling my threads in to their closest alignment, making myself as small as I can to wrap more closely round these two. I am pulling myself under them, squeezing them together and it is too much for them. A final kick into my back left skirt panel and a spasm of joy that blows my mind, and all is stillness.  
  
'I lie around them, unable to do more. They are still, but for the heaving of their chests and the little electric jerks that shake them from time to time.  
  
'In the silence, I hear a sentence, years in the making, and so low as to be almost inaudible.'  
  
"Love you Arthur."  
  
 _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy comments that, although careless talk costs lives (as amply demonstrated elsewhere); carefully considered talk (see also: 'Better late than never'), has been proven to be a powerful restorative (see also: tea, hearty stews and brisk walks).Some Ape-descended life-forms can be brought to a state of such bliss by the right phrase at the right time, that any attempt to describe their reaction is not only pointless, but extremely dangerous to the future of all descriptive prose in the galaxy._  
  
The dressing gown belonging to Arthur Dent was eventually handed back to its owner and repaired. It is still with him, though slightly less closely involved than at the time described.  
  
The pyjamas were retired several years ago, and made their way, through a wormhole that unexpectedly opened just next to them, to a large moon populated almost entirely by broken alarm clocks in varying states of decay.  
  
The underpants are unmentionable.  
  
   
  



End file.
